It's a nice gloomy day outside and I wonder if they'll be out there. The mothers with their baby carriages. Hogging up the sidewalk, with 2 or 3 other kids with her. All of them smiling at me as I walk past, excited at the wonderful season yet to come. Why do they smile at me? Why do they care? Another place, another time, I would probably get a frown. Maybe it's because they are out in the open and having a relaxing walk. I can't begrudge them that. They have their freedom. Mine is within the confines of my place.
I was walking home last night and there was this guy in front of me on the sidewalk, walking slow. They walk slow when the weather's nice, it's kind of irritating. I just want to get home, but this guy's walking slow. I could pass him hurriedly, but I don't want to be rude, so just hang back and walk at his pace too. It's so slow, I think I might fall down and die, that's why I have to keep moving because if I stop I might as well be dead, like an old person in a retirement home playing shuffleboard and having their pee emptied out by an orderly. It's a sickening thought, though one I will have to face eventually I suppose. Maybe when I'm 71 like my uncle? I don't think he had it that bad, but he still had it bad. He took it stride though, I know he did. Which is why he didn't opt for the Chemo. That was brave of him. He knew he lived a full life though. And he did. Kids, grandkids. What more could you ask for? Sure the family had some turbulent times in the early years, but everything worked out for all of them. The kids are all successful: One's a banker, the other a teacher, and the third manages a meat plant. They're pretty up there. Not sure if that is the measure of success, but it is one of those readily seen successes. They have professions.
Of course, my success is not seen. My profession is the writer profession. That's only seen when I'm like Stephen King or someone of that caliber. There is a debate on his quality in literary circles, but the mainstream loves him and he's loaded. My point isn't the quality of his fiction, but in that amount of money he makes. After that, people start thinking you're cool, that your profession is cool. Not the people who want to be writers, just the others; the 9 to fivers, the wage-slaves I suppose or the big CEO's or the stuck-ups, suits. Once you make that big fat cash, it's all of a sudden "Wow, you're a writer, that's awesome!"
So I'm walking home, and eventually the guy keeps walking when I have to turn to go into my place. So thank god for that. Finally I'm in and safe. My meatloaf dinner is waiting for me, and it's good to be sitting down having a salad and meatloaf. A proper dinner for what seems like ages. Not that spaghetti is bad, but I never have time to do a salad or vegetable. I should do that more often.
Today is a busy day. I can't go to the poetry reading. Too much on my mind. So I plan to stay home, but I have bills to pay which means I have to go outside. It's my day off. Wish I had two, but I just had one. Wage-slave life is all I can say to that. I'm hoping they won't be there, the mothers with their baby carriages and they're whiny kids.
The best thing to do is just to do it and not think about it. I can't wait to get back home though. Back to my place, back to my space. Life doesn't suck, just some of the people I bump into that I don't know. Faceless people. "The apparation of the faces in the crowd; petals on a wet, black, bough."